


A Stone in the Snow

by stevem1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevem1/pseuds/stevem1
Summary: This story is a more southern oriented plot line.  This diverges from canon in that: 1) Arthur survived (barely) at the Tower of Joy; 2) Ashara did not kill herself, as she avoided the last of a series of emotional blows that I think led to her canon death (Arthur’s death at the hand of her former lover); and, 3) the Daynes injected some pragmatism and common sense into Ned’s plans for passing Jon off as his bastard.   Part of that plan is a minor gamble when he returns to King’s Landing with Lyanna’s bones.  That decision pushes history onto a different track.R+L=J.  Also the main pairing, as you’ll discover in chapter 1, is Jon Snow/Mya Stone.  The idea of Jon/Mya was given to me by schrutfarms.  When I reversed engineered how that might work, this story came to me.
Relationships: Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Mya Stone
Comments: 105
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. I’m only borrowing some of his characters and settings to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.

TSINTS TSINTS TSINTS

Eddard Stark kept his face impassive and his back erect as he rode towards the Red Keep. The city appeared well on its way to recovering from Tywin Lannister’s assault, though the repairs that were ongoing did nothing to conceal its stench.

He could not wait to be away from this place. His stomach roiled as he considered the possibility that he would fail in what he was about to attempt. That he would fail his sister.

He pushed the thought from his mind. In some ways, this was the last small scrimmage of the war. There is no battle without risk, he thought, remembering his father’s advice. Even the best generals can only manage that risk.

He turned to Howland Reed, the last of his companions. The rest of his childhood friends had been slain at the hands of three Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy. He’d be dead also, if it weren’t for Howland managing to get behind Ser Arthur Dayne. 

He suppressed a flash of memory of that last battle. Hightower, Whent and Dayne were all demons with a sword. He never wanted to face such again.

“Stay with the babe and Ashara when the steward provides us quarters. Don’t allow yourself to be separated. I want at least two men with the wagon at all times and another two standing guard outside her door.”

Howland nodded placidly in agreement, his pale green eyes never blinking. Ned thought those eyes saw everything. In many ways, despite being the smallest of his companions, he was the most dangerous. 

It was his knife that maimed Dayne. The crannogman had been within a heartbeat of opening the Sword of the Morning’s throat but Dayne’s speed and reflexes were exceptional. He’d managed to get a hand between the knife and his throat, losing half his hand in the process. But it’d saved his life.

It also finally gave Ned the opening he needed to end the battle. He’d used that opening to thrust at Ser Arthur’s exposed throat. But the Sword of the Morning was equally competent with both his left and his right hands. Despite battling the knife wielding crannogman on his back, he’d managed to keep enough of his attention on Ned to parry and redirect the thrust with his offhand blade. 

Fortunately for Ned and Howland, Dayne’s effort was not completely successful. Ned had still connected, the Valyrian steel bursting the chainmail links under Dayne’s pauldron, taking the sole remaining Kingsguard out of the fight. 

Despite the passing of weeks, Ned still did not know whether he’d made the right decision not to simply kill the man out of hand. 

While it certainly helped with the Daynes, the man was implacable in his duty. The fact the war was over and he’d lost never appeared to enter his mind. Despite being at death’s door he’d vehemently stated his intention to place the infant boy on the Iron Throne, even if he was only an army of one. 

It took the intervention of his sister, Ashara, and his older brother and Lord of House Dayne, Alaric, to convince the duty mad Kingsguard to go along with Ned’s plan. After some sensible modifications from Ashara, though Ned hated to think of the further shame it had and would bring her.

Arthur only relented after Alaric reminded his half dead brother that the primary purpose of his oath was to protect his King. Leading a rebellion with no army in the name of a Targaryen prince of dubious legitimacy would only result in the boy being killed.

Ned shook his mind clear of those thoughts. The fanatical knight would spend months recovering. He had time to put matters in place without his interference. 

He dropped back to the wagon. He studiously ignored the simple pine coffin that rested in the back. “Will you stay with the boy, Lady Ashara?”

Ashara was much thinner than he remembered. There were lines of sorrow around her youthful purple eyes that caused his heart to ache. He hated himself for not being there when she gave birth to their stillborn daughter. Another oath broken, he sneered at himself contemptuously. 

She’d been a mere shadow of her former self, pale and haggard, when he’d arrived at Starfall with Arthur nearly bled out on a stretcher and the sword, Dawn, in his hand. He wondered how she would have reacted if her brother’s body had been delivered dead. He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

She smiled wanly. “Of course, Lord Eddard. I will not be separated from our son,” she replied with just a hint of reproach as she repeated the lie they’d all agreed on, the lie that sickened him and dishonored them all. A lie that she was more and more treating as reality.

He nodded silently in appreciation and resisted brushing aside a strand of dark hair that had fallen across her eyes. He no longer enjoyed the privilege of touching the woman he loved. His marriage to Catelyn Tully, though necessary to win the war and preserve his family, had seen to that. Besides, he’d dishonored them all enough for one lifetime.

She turned her attention away from him after answering and placed a kiss on the infant’s sleeping brow. The boy cooed softly in his sleep.

Ned knew she was still not fully recovered from the death of their daughter, but he was happy she was taking obvious comfort in holding his infant nephew. While Wylla served as a wet nurse, Ashara never let her hold the boy more than was necessary for a feeding. Instead, she did everything possible to monopolize time with the boy. 

Ned wasn’t sure that her behavior was entirely healthy, but he said nothing. He’d long since lost the right to speak to her with the freedom addressing his concerns would require. She also ignored Ned as much as possible, which Ned admitted was for the best, even if it caused his heart to ache.

It was for the best, he repeated grimly, as he spurred his horse away and past the column of Dayne sworn swords who had served as his escort to King’s Landing. They’d been sent not only to protect Ashara and her alleged natural son on their journey, but also as an expression of gratitude toward Eddard Stark for his returning both Dawn and, allegedly, the Sword of the Morning’s body to Starfall. 

It was also Lord Dayne’s announcement to the world that his house still stood behind his sister. She may have shamed the family by delivering a bastard, but that mattered not to Alaric Dayne. 

The rest of the Seven Kingdoms held a somewhat exaggerated opinion of the libertine ways of Dornish women. The Daynes’ public gesture took advantage of that thinking. It would help cement in the public mind that Jon was Ned and Ashara’s bastard and not the son of a half mad, prophecy obsessed Targaryen prince. 

As to House Stark, the Daynes proclaimed that Ser Arthur had died in honorable combat. Eddard Stark’s return of Dawn, their ancestral sword, and acknowledging his natural son, Jon, was all the recompense they required.

Alaric, at the urging of his brother and with the consent of his grieving sister, had decided that House Dayne could endure some public shame, if needed, to preserve the bloodline they’d sworn allegiance to, no matter how far it had fallen. The gods ultimately judged a man and house’s honor, not mortals.

The score of Dayne armsmen had been selected to reinforce that purpose. None of them were part of Starfall’s regular garrison. None had any reason to suspect that Jon wasn’t his and Ashara’s natural son. As soldiers would talk, they would spread the lie they wanted told as the truth. They would be believed because they believed it true.

Ned again felt a wave of self-contempt roll over him. His deception and willingness to deceive others so they would lie for him condemned him in the eyes of the gods, both old and new. He was damned and he knew it.

Ned dismissed his troubled thoughts, the shame Houses Stark and Dayne would endure because of his lies, when he arrived at the Red Keep. The keep’s staff had exploded into activity upon spying his banner. Accommodations were provided without question, and the stewards’ heads were all bowed in respect.

Ned’s gut settled, just a bit. The words exchanged with Robert at their last meeting had been hard and unforgiving. His belief that Robert would not hold to them against him for long appeared to be correct, if the behavior of his staff was any indication. 

Robert’s tempers were like a summer storm. Here one moment, gone the next.

It didn’t change that what he had done, what he was about to do, was treason. Any pretense of honor would be just that, a pretense. His actual honor would be stripped away by lies, even if the world believed those lies. 

He remembered the broken, mutilated bodies of little Rhaenys and infant Aegon. He remembered his oath to his dying sister. He remembered holding his newborn nephew over her bloody body. He breathed deeply. Some things were more important than honor, he reassured himself. He only hoped the gods would agree when he finally breathed his last.

“Would m’lord care to be shown to his apartments? Water drawn for a bath?” A steward asked, his head bowed, his tone obsequious. 

The man’s pathetic subservience irritated Ned. He wanted the directness and forthrightness of the people of the North. He despised King’s Landing. He despised the Red Keep even more. He wanted this over and done with. If the informers knew of his lies and made the King aware, he’d be dead soon. At least he would be done with this hell.

So would his nephew, the infant Baelor, named for the heroic, dark haired, dark eyed Breakspear. He swallowed despairingly. The infant’s coloring had been a small mercy, Ned thought, as his stomach twisted, though he’d been told eye color could change over the first year. 

He wondered if they’d dash his brains out against a stone wall like they’d done his infant brother, if they ever saw the truth in his face.

He suppressed those dark thoughts. He wasn’t dead yet. Neither was Jon, the name he’d given his nephew to conceal any connection to the Targaryen dynasty. It seemed something a noble lord might do in his circumstances, naming a natural son after his foster father.

“No,” he replied curtly. “I’d like to see His Grace. See if he has time for his Warden of the North.”

Ned stood near the gate as the steward took off running. He stayed near the wagon bearing the simple pine coffin holding his sister’s bones. No matter how foolish she’d been, no matter the destruction she’d unknowingly caused, she was his sister and he’d always love her. If he was to die, he wanted to die near her, near his blood. 

His eyes tracked Ashara, Howland and the boy as they were led away, armsmen in tow. Howland gave a silent nod, which Ned returned. Ashara did not look back.

A variety of armsmen were loitering around. He wasn’t familiar enough with the Red Keep to know whether this was normal or not. He frowned when he noticed that a disproportionate number wore Lannister red. That Tywin Lannister, murderer of babes, had such a presence in the capital was disturbing.

He’d only been standing a short while, one hand on his sister’s coffin and his head bowed in silent prayer, before he heard a loud and boisterous shout of “Ned!” He lifted his head to see his friend, a man he’d considered a brother and whom he’d betrayed, rushing forward to embrace him.

He allowed himself a small smile, forced as it was. He returned Robert’s embrace, before dropping to a knee. “Your Grace,” he said steadily, though he couldn’t keep the grief from his voice.

“Rise, Ned,” Robert replied impatiently, pulling Ned reluctantly to his feet. The man’s strength was immense and he would have had to use all of his strength to resist it. He’d well earned the title ‘Demon of the Trident’. 

“And keep that ‘Grace’ crap to yourself. That’s fine for the lickspittles that inhabit this snake infested pit, but I don’t want to hear that word come from your mouth.”

Ned inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He couldn’t stop a smirk from appearing on his face. Robert’s good humor was infectious. It was almost enough to make him forget why he was here and what he had done and what he would do. Almost.

Robert roared with laughter again, his shovel sized hands slapping him across his back. It was near all he could do to stay on his feet. Ned was as tall as his friend, and as broad across the shoulders, but he lacked the sheer mass his friend possessed. 

The man was nothing but muscle. If there was any man in the Seven Kingdoms who could match Gregor Clegane for power, it was Robert Baratheon. 

The thought made his hand itch for his sword. If there was a man who deserved death more than Clegane, Ned would be hard pressed to identify him. Though if he were to make an effort, his first suspects all wore Lannister red.

Ned’s sudden grimness caused Robert to check his laughter. His friend’s eyes caught sight of the wagon and its contents. 

“Is it . . .?” he asked, a hitch in his voice. He broke into silent tears at Ned’s nod.

Ned stood there, quietly, as his friend, his brother in all but blood, wept. It was some time before he could speak.

“What will you do with her?” Robert asked in an uncharacteristic whisper, his face wet with tears. “Where will you bury her?”

“Winterfell,” came Ned’s grim reply. “Next to our father and Brandon.”

The king shook his head in disagreement. “No, Ned. She needs to be buried under a tree, with the wind, and under the sun and stars. Not some cold, stone crypt.”

He breathed deeply. Now was the first test. “Lyanna was born a Stark. She died a Stark. No matter the injustice that caused her death, she’ll be buried a Stark.” He stared directly into the King’s eyes, defying him. “She didn’t die a Baratheon no matter what we may have wished, Robert.”

Robert’s moods were always mercurial. His first reaction to being refused was a flushed face, which was almost always a precursor to one of his rages. Ned didn’t back down and kept his eyes level on his friend, the man he’d helped make a King.

For once, Robert looked away first, the blood draining from his face as his shoulders slumped. “Have it your way, Ned,” he said, his voice morose. “How did she die?”

“A fever,” he replied curtly. “The Dornish sun did her no favors.”

The King’s eyes glinted dangerously at the mention of Dorne. “And her jailers?”

“All dead. I pulled the tower she was imprisoned in down and left their bodies to the jackals.”

Robert stood straight at hearing that, a manic, twisted smile making an appearance. “Good. Very good.” Then his sudden but brief mania gave way to depression. “I should have been there,” he near sobbed, his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “I should have been there to help you kill those animals.”

“Aye,” Ned said in quiet agreement, knowing that neither the truth nor platitudes would serve. “But you were wounded and had a duty as king.” He forced his face to resume its still mask. “And you killed their leader, I killed his accomplices. They’re all dead, just the same.”

Robert wiped a tear from his eye, then ran his hand through his thick, wild hair. “You’ll join me for dinner tonight.” His tone brooked no opposition. “We’ll dine alone and remember Lyanna.”

Ned gave his assent, ignoring the relief that flooded his body. No hint the king knew of his betrayal. No mention of Jon, whether as his bastard or Rhaegar’s. 

Hours later, after he bathed, changed his clothes, and checked on Jon and Ashara, he found himself in the King’s private quarters. Ser Barristan Selmy was on guard outside the door. The knight was pale and wane, and obviously not fully recovered. But Ser Barristan was not the type of knight that would let a small thing like a dozen wounds prevent him from doing his duty.

He sent Ned a sharp glare, which confused Ned, before his face was restored to a stoic mask. He opened the door for Ned and announced his presence before returning to his post.

They’d been sitting and eating for sometime. Their dinner started quietly, somberly, but as wine was poured and they relaxed, Ned began sharing stories of Lyanna. Robert soon began talking of his never to be dreams. It was almost like old times when Ned’s exhausted wits finally caught up with him.

“What of Jon Arryn?” he asked, referring to the King’s Hand, the foster father he shared with Robert, and the namesake of his nephew that he’d proclaimed was his son. It was Jon Arryn’s loyalty to his wards, more than anything, which saw the Targaryen dynasty cast down.

Robert stretched and Ned heard his back crack. Robert was a big man and constantly complained of pain in his bones. “At Driftmark, whipping the Velaryons into shape. They had expectations beyond their station and Jon is correcting their thinking.”

“I’ll be sorry to miss him,” Ned said softly. And it was true. House Stark owed the Lord of the Vale a debt that could never be repaid.

His friend suddenly tensed. “What do you mean? You’ll stay until he returns.”

Ned laughed reluctantly. “I’ve been gone from the North for a year. I’d been home only weeks after I was declared lord, before I raised an army and left to make you king. I have no idea what mischief my lords have been up to in my absence. I need to return and put my house in order. I will take a ship on the morning tide.” 

He consciously refused to think of his true reason, his desire to avoid the all too intelligent eyes of his foster father. Better for him to have only the information given to him by Robert and the keep’s staff.

“I don’t know, Ned,” Robert complained, obviously disgruntled. “You and Jon pushed this crown on me. He’s here to help and you’re not. You should stay and help me rule. The North has been there for thousands of years, it can wait a few more.” A mischievous light lit in the king’s eye. “It’s your duty,” he solemnly proclaimed. “Ned Stark, Master of Laws.”

He took a sip of the wine Robert had been pushing on him non-stop this evening. It was becoming difficult to pace himself. He needed to keep his wits about him. 

“I have a wife I barely know and a son I’ve never met on the way to Winterfell. On a ship I can arrive before they do, if I leave tomorrow.” Ned did not need to fake his sigh of regret and longing. “I need to see my son, Robert.”

His friend’s face fell momentarily, until it was suddenly replaced with a leer. “I hear you have another son,” he chortled. “With that beauty, Ashara Dayne, no less.” He slapped him on his shoulder. “And you convinced her to follow you back to Winterfell, you sly dog.” Robert finished his drink and poured himself another, burping. “And here I thought I was good with the ladies. It’s always the quiet ones,” he concluded, laughing and shaking his head.

Ned kept his face carefully schooled. “I intend to give the boy a holdfast somewhere in the North. Ashara will join him there. I won’t bring either to Winterfell.”

Robert belched again. Ned noticed there were food stains on the front of his jerkin. His friend's hygiene was still the same. He wondered if Lyanna would have been able to control the worst of his excesses. 

“Probably wise. As good with the ladies as you obviously are, my sneaky friend, two beautiful women under the same roof means you’ll have no peace. Better to send one away and only visit her occasionally, when you need some variety,” he offered sagely.

“Aye,” Ned agreed, despite the shame his words implied toward Ashara, as if she were his paramour. Disagreement would only lead to disaster. It was time to bring up the part of the plan that Ashara thought would provide Jon some assurance of keeping suspicion away. 

“What of your child, what of Mya?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, as he remembered the squealing delight of the toddler as her father tossed her into the air. He was exhausted. “How is she?” 

“She’s a wild one,” Robert proclaimed indulgently. “Haven’t seen her in awhile, as Jon suggested keeping her away from court. She’ll be a heartbreaker someday.”

“Have you decided where you’ll foster her?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. He hated dancing around, playing these games. Promise me, Ned, her voice whispered, and he had to take a quick drink to cover up his paling face.

His friend shrugged dismissively. “No. Jon will doubtless take care of it.”

Now, he thought. “Let me take her,” he suggested, ignoring his friend’s suddenly widening eyes. “I’ll ask Ashara to raise her with Jon. We can betroth them. It’ll go a small way to joining our blood as it should have been,” but for the madness, blindness and foolishness of too many, he silently added.

Robert’s surprise turned to delight. “Ha! Wouldn’t that be something,” he mused, as he leaned back contentedly, trying to balance his goblet on his too flat stomach. “You said you’ll give the boy land?”

Ned nodded silently. He knew it was always better to plant the seed and then let Robert’s imagination run with it. By morning he’d think it was all his idea.

The king finished another goblet of wine, and poured himself another. The quantity of alcohol that Robert could consume was staggering. 

“Right,” he said decisively, holding his hand out to Ned. “Shake on it. You provide the land, and I’ll provide the gold to build their castle.”

Ned grasped forearms signaling the acceptance of their agreement but protested. “There is no need for your gold. I have more than enough silver to build them a stout timber keep or maybe a stone tower house. They’ll be comfortable.”

The king looked scandalized. “You want to have my sweet Mya live in a wood castle?” he asked, challengingly. He completely ignored the offer of a tower house. “She’s my little girl, my first born. I won’t have her living half a savage, in a hut that one good fire would put an end to our grandchildren. She’ll have a proper castle from me as her dowry, and I won’t hear any different.” 

Ned was a bit lost. The plan was to join their bloodlines, so if Robert ever discovered the secret, he’d be less likely to take extreme measures against Jon. After all, his own grandchildren would be dragonspawn, as he’d put it when presented with the murdered Targaryen babes. 

The plan was not for Robert to take any undue interest. Ned had thought he’d lost interest in Mya during the war. He needed to discourage too much of a southern presence in the North. The fewer royalists watching Jon, the better.

“A small one,” he suggested. “And I will contribute.”

“Not so small,” Robert contradicted him. “I won’t quibble over coppers. You wouldn’t believe the amount of gold Aerys,” he sneered contemptuously, “had hidden away. The treasury was overflowing.” He stretched again, his bones popping, after he quaffed even more of his wine. “The least we can do is spend some of that gold making a decent place in the world for our children.”

Ned sighed. He wondered what he’d been thinking to bring the issue directly to Robert’s attention. He should have sent a raven. Jon Arryn, at least, would have kept his foster son in check.

“Agreed,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll give them Skane. It’s unoccupied, remote and out of the way. It’ll cause less of a scandal.”

Robert hummed contentedly for a moment, then his eyes clouded. “Skane?! Skane!? As in the Feast of Skane?” he demanded, referring to an incident centuries ago where the neighboring Skagosi invaded and cannibalized the residents. “No. Absolutely not. You may as well be sending my girl to the Wall. And how would I visit any grandchildren?!”

The king tilted back his goblet, draining it to the dregs. The pitcher he’d been pouring from was empty. He threw it against the wall, yelling for more wine, not bothering to stand. A terrified page ran into the room with two more pitchers. Robert visibly relaxed.

“You’re terrible at this fatherhood thing, Ned,” the king groused as he refilled his cup. “I’m taking over, for your sake before you make a pig’s mess of things.” Ned could see the gears turning in his friend’s head, even as he suppressed his irritation at being referred to as a terrible father. “Moat Cailin is midway, but the blood gnats will have our children dead in a moon’s time. If we go further north, that means I can’t visit often.” 

Ned watched patiently as his friend hummed. He was too tired to think. If it was to be land in the North, obviously they’d have to be north of the Neck. Robert would figure that out soon enough, he thought as he suppressed a yawn.

Robert’s eyes were a bit glazed, which meant he was just beginning to feel his drink. Knowing Robert as he did, that meant there were still hours of imbibing ahead of them. Maybe he’d lose his train of thought, he mused hopefully.

“Oldstones,” he suddenly announced, as if he had a revelation from on high. “The Tullys will turn it over to the Crown if they know what’s good for them and Hoster’s no fool. It’s about halfway and the land is good.” He belched again. “Since you aren’t providing the land, you’ll provide the people. Enough smallfolk for them to live comfortably, and support a reasonable life-style. Maybe a half dozen or so knights in their service, and a hundred foot.” 

One could always trust Robert to reduce a holding’s value to the number of armed men it could call on, a small part of Ned’s mind muttered even as it reeled. Jon in the south was a disaster. He needed to salvage this. 

“The North is sparsely inhabited,” he offered weakly. “Moving people will be troublesome. I have more than enough land. I can provide something other than Skane. Maybe on the coast so you can reach it by ship.” 

His excuses sounded weak even to his ears. Why hadn’t he asked for the New Gift back, he thought panicked. Something on the eastern coast, so it would be approachable by sea.

Robert’s eyes narrowed. “Ned, you’re full of crap. And I hate the sea. If you run short of people, I’ll send more from the Stormlands.” The king looked contemplatively at him, his eyes going in and out of focus before a sudden realization appeared in his eyes. “It’s not charity, brother,” he said, only slightly slurring his words. “We’re spending Aerys’ gold; it’s not like it’s costing us anything. And Hoster Tully’s extracted enough concessions from us, so it’s only fair that we extract a bit from him. Let me handle it,” he ended, obviously mistaking Ned’s sudden panic to hurt pride, to his great relief, as he slapped him on the back again.

Ned forcibly calmed himself. Oldstones was a ruin. It would take years to restore. More than enough time to adjust course as needed. Perhaps Robert wouldn’t even remember this part of the conversation tomorrow.

Ned nodded, reluctantly, which Robert immediately took as a victory and another excuse to refill his goblet. He also moved to pour more wine into Ned’s goblet, only to notice it was only half empty. 

“Ned!” he said, sounding offended. “None of these polite sips. You’re no dainty maiden. Drink like a man!” Robert lifted his goblet to his lips and held it there, challenging his friend. Seeing Ned’s reluctance, “Your king commands it!” he ordered.

Ned complied and was pleased to see Robert smile. “To Jon and Mya,” King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, proclaimed. “May they have many years of happiness together.” 

Ned joined Robert in drinking deeply to that. May they have many years, he prayed silently to the old gods. May his secrets stay safe and unspoken.

His prayer was interrupted when Robert asked, “what name should they take? Oldstones? Coldstones,” he said, half laughing, half snorting. “Stark? Baratheon? Jon probably won’t like that,” he mused, “he’d start pontificating about the dignity of the royal name. But we need something with a bit of gravitas to go with a strong castle. Drink and tell me your ideas, Ned!”

Lord Eddard Stark lifted his refilled goblet to his lips, inwardly groaning as he drank under his friend’s watchful and demanding eye. He may live to see the morning, he thought relieved, but he knew he’d likely wish he was dead come the morning hangover.

TSINTS TSINTS TSINTS

AN: I make no promises as to the update frequency of this story.

AN: I admit Oldstones is a stupid plan. But it’s a drunken Robert stupid plan. Ned was too guilt ridden, too drunk and too exhausted to form a coherent objection. I wanted to write an AU where Jon was divorced somewhat from the North (but not completely- he’ll still be loyal to the Starks and Ghost will still be involved) and the Wall, and which suggested it would be better set in the South. I also didn’t want to do my usual let’s mix in some economics like I’m doing in my other three ASoIaF stories (to a greater or lesser degree). I thought Oldstones had no lord and was centrally located (which drops him and Mya in the middle of the future action), would piss off the Tullys (a chance for more conflict with the family, which would otherwise be lessened due to Jon’s absence from Winterfell), and has some common history with the Targaryens.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: In this chapter we continue to see King Robert the Wrecking Ball in action and Ned, eventually, heads North.

TSINTS TSINTS TSINTS

Robert managed to delay Ned’s departure three days. 

The first day was his own fault, Ned admitted. The sun had been high in the sky before he woke. The tide waited for no man, so he’d missed the ship that Howland had booked to take them to White Harbor.

When he did finally wake, the light of the sun had been like a dagger driven into his brain. He’d moaned in agony. His head pounded, his eyes felt like someone had ground gravel into them, and his body ached. His stomach betrayed him time after time. It was all he could do to drag himself out of bed. Slowly.

He wished he was dead.

When Robert found him in the early afternoon, he’d only wanted to crawl back into bed and darken the room. By contrast, the huge quantities of alcohol consumed apparently had no effect on his friend. 

The king had woken when the sun rose. Worse, he’d forgotten nothing of their evening’s discussion.

He’d also wasted no time in pursuing his drunken plan, to Ned’s despair.

“Ned!” he’d proclaimed, making no attempt to moderate his volume as he barged unannounced into his quarters. “You’re awake! About time too, I was wondering if I needed to call a maester!”

He winced. “Quietly, Robert,” he’d moaned, holding his head into his hands. “Gods, what were we drinking?”

“A strong Tyroshi red,” his supposed friend had boomed, still making no effort to speak softly. “You’d be amazed at some of the wines that Aerys had in the cellar. He hadn’t even bothered to tap the barrel!”

For the first time in his life, Eddard Stark considered the possibility that perhaps Aerys was not as mad as they’d all thought. Drinking more than a goblet of that Tyroshi brew was madness. 

He winced again. He couldn’t remember how many he and Robert had downed. His stomach threatened to empty itself then and there, just thinking about it.

Robert cast an evaluating eye over him. “You need bread. And fat. We need to line your weak stomach. Some hair of the dog wouldn’t hurt either,” he opined professionally. “You really should drink more. You need to build up your tolerance.”

Ned’s green face was his only answer. Robert guffawed before heading into the corridor, shouting orders. 

A short time later, Ned was delicately eating bread dipped in bacon grease and drinking watered down red wine. Thankfully, not the stuff from Tyrosh. It gradually began to dawn on him that Robert was right. He was beginning to feel better.

That didn’t last long. “I’ve signed the letters patent this morning,” his friend the king said conversationally, as he took another large drink. Unlike Ned’s, his wine had not been diluted with water.

It took a moment for that comment to sink in. “Letters patent?” he’d repeated stupidly.

Robert’s look had been condescending. “Of course. Like we agreed last night. You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

“No, of course not,” he’d replied mechanically. He hesitated. “What exactly did we agree on?” He dreaded the answer.

“I made our bastards legitimate, just like we discussed,” Robert replied, his tone indicating he thought Ned was being simple. Ned marveled at the King’s nonchalance in announcing he may have just cast aside every law of succession in Westeros.

Ned felt his heart constrict. Robb, he thought desperately. Let me not have disinherited Robb. In his panic he couldn’t prevent himself from emptying his stomach into his wash basin.

The king was very conciliatory. He held Ned’s hair as he vomited into the basin. Dimly Ned remembered Robert having done this more than once before, when they were squires. You’d think I’d have learned by now, he’d despaired.

Once he’d emptied his stomach, again, he gasped, “Tell me I didn’t disinherit my son.”

Robert had laughed. “Of course not! Do you think me a fool? I just made Jon and Mya legitimate. They keep the names Snow and Stone, and are placed behind our trueborn children in the succession. All perfectly legal, according to the maesters and heralds.” He frowned. “Though I had to threaten Pycelle with the black cells before he’d draft the papers. He kept bleating about wanting to wait for the Hand, but I shut him up. What’s the good in being the king, if you can’t do your family and friends a favor from time to time?”

Ned’s breathing eased. He had planned to ask Robert to make Jon and Mya legitimate. Ashara had been certain it was necessary to secure their future. He’d just planned to wait a few years. He must have spoken of his intention to Robert last night. 

He managed to push another bite down his throat and wash it down. Things weren’t bad, though he suspected Catelyn might not like this most recent development. He had planned to discuss it with her first, but it was water under the bridge now.

Once he was feeling better, if only marginally, he decided to broach the subject of Oldstones again. “Robert, I think requiring Hoster to surrender Oldstones is a mistake. The man is my goodfather. Asking him to accept my natural son as his bannerman might be considered an insult. Let me give Jon and Mya the New Gift. It could be made rich and can be approached by sea.”

Robert smiled broadly at him. “Don’t fret, Ned. I didn’t demand anything of the old trout.” 

The tension he’d felt suddenly escaped his body. He almost gasped in satisfaction. “Thank the gods,” he muttered under his breath.

“I gave him a choice,” Robert continued, as if not hearing Ned’s comment. “He could surrender Oldstones to the Crown so I could grant it to our children or, if he preferred, I could grant a royal charter to the Stoney Sept and name your son its lord.” Ned felt his gut spasm again. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it last night. The Stoney Sept has been asking for a city charter for years. It would reward the town’s loyalty, and make Jon and Mya wealthy.”

And impoverish Hoster Tully to a like degree, Ned mentally added. The choice the king offered to his goodfather was no choice. The Lord of the Riverlands was being extorted for the benefit of their bastards. There was no way he didn’t take this as an insult.

“He won’t make things easy for our children, Robert. As Lord Paramount of the Trident, he’d be able to inflict many small slights. Please, let me give them the New Gift,” he implored again.

Robert’s face flushed. “I’d break him if he tried, Ned,” he growled, his eyes flinty. A moment later all signs of his ire vanished. “Besides, it won’t be an issue. Your son will swear directly to the Crown. Tully won’t be in a position of authority over him and he’d be well advised to keep his grasping paws well away from our children’s lands.”

It only gets worse, Ned realized to his growing horror. No matter what Ashara claimed, stopping at King’s Landing had been a disaster. If he never saw the city again, it would be too soon.

He covered his face with his hand as he tried to think. “The New Gift . . .” he began again, only to be cut off.

“Damn your New Gift, Ned! I want our children in the south, not the frozen north! You’ve already taken Lyanna from me, you won’t take the babes!” Robert was shouting, red faced. He drank deeply before visibly calming himself. “If you want the New Gift, I’ll give it to you, but Jon and Mya are taking Oldstones. Your Ashara can foster them until then,” his tone much more reasonable than when he started.

Ned leaned back in his seat. The pounding in his head had subsided to a dull ache. It’d never occurred to him that Robert might fear separation every bit as much as he did.

He pushed his cup across the table. “Give me some wine,” he demanded, as his friend poured. “If you are bound and determined to make my wife hate me, at least let me be drunk for it.”

The king waved his hand dismissively. “Cat’s a good woman, Ned,” he claimed. “She’ll get over it. Just be honey sweet to her for a while. Worse comes to worse, put another pup in her. That’ll distract her.” He grinned at him. “I don’t need to tell you how to charm the ladies, do I?” 

He was pretty sure that taking advice on his love life from Robert Baratheon would not end well. He had some vague memories of humiliating moments trying to extract his friend from brothels and, on one memorable occasion, a lord’s hall. 

He’d been an idiot to ever champion Lyanna’s betrothal to Robert, he realized despondently.

“Is that all? Any other surprises or favors you’ve done for me that I should know about?” he asked sarcastically. 

Robert looked wounded. “Ned, damn you, all I’ve done is what we agreed on.” Seeing his friend’s bleary eyed, skeptical gaze, he continued, “I may have added a few details, but they were important and you weren’t awake to discuss them,” he protested in an obvious attempt to deflect blame onto Ned.

“No doubt,” Ned said drily. “You haven’t answered my question. Anything else I need to know about?”

The king definitely had a shifty look on his face, even as his face grew flush, Ned thought. He kept his gaze level and did his best to channel Jon Arryn when he’d caught them misbehaving as squires. 

Robert finally broke, the blood draining from his complexion. “I may have sent some engineers and stonemasons to Oldstones to scout the site.” Ned arched his eyebrow, as if asking for the rest of it, as Jon Arryn had done so often to good results. Ned himself had broken more than once under that gaze. “And authorized them to draw drafts on the treasury to hire workers and purchase materials so they could begin construction,” he added, half guiltily. 

“Jon’s not going to like that,” Ned observed. At this point, nothing Robert could do would surprise him.

“Well, if he wants to be king, he can take the damn crown!” Robert roared defensively, as he stood and paced. “It’s my treasury and if I want to spend it, that’s my right! It’s not like I’m drinking or whoring it away,” he added, to Ned’s view acting the part of a petulant child. “Building a castle is a perfectly acceptable crown expense. It’ll take a decade or more to complete. We need to start now if it’s to be done before our children come of age.”

Ned sighed. What was done was done, he reminded himself. Arguing with Robert would get him nowhere. Once he’d made upon his mind, all he’d do is dig in his heels. No amount of reason or common sense would deter him.

“Fine,” he heard himself say. “Have it your way. I need to talk to my men. We need to book passage on another ship.”

“Of course,” Robert had said jovially. “Make your arrangements. When you're done, we’ll dine in my apartments again.”

Ned was fairly sure he’d seen something like triumph flash in his friend’s eye but he couldn’t figure out what it meant. He put it from his mind as he went about his afternoon’s business.

It didn’t take him long to determine what the flash of triumph he thought he saw actually meant. Robert had diverted the next two ships to White Harbor. One he’d chartered to carry copies of the papers legitimizing Jon and Mya, and confirming their betrothal, to the Citadel. While prudent, that additional notice was not strictly necessary and could have waited. 

Another was carrying the masons and engineers employed by Robert to Seagard. From there it was a short overland journey to Oldstones. 

The king seemed to have intentionally overlooked the fact that the Seagard ship traveled over the same route as the vessel bound for the Citadel. One ship could have accomplished both tasks. 

He’d also had no need to divert any ships, as the traffic between Oldtown and King’s Landing was regular and constant. There were an average of two a day coming and going. His sole purpose had obviously been to delay Ned’s leaving the capital.

Ned wondered how long the treasury would survive Robert’s sudden passions and indulgences. Despite wanting to avoid his foster father, he prayed for his speedy return. He didn’t think the kingdom could bear an unsupervised king for much longer. 

He did manage to book passage on a Manderly ship the day after next, to his great relief. As it was in the direct service of Ned’s sworn lord, Robert would not be able to subvert this one. At least he hoped not, he thought worriedly.

When he explained that their departure would be pushed back a few days, Howland and Ashara both seemed amused. Neither blamed him, to his surprise. 

Ashara spent the extra time showing off Jon to every lady in court who’d stay still long enough to engage in conversation. She seemed immune to the sly innuendos they cast her way, suggesting that she’d dishonored herself and her family bearing a bastard. Instead, she took an inordinate amount of pride in the boy, discussing everything from his length, weight, and eating to sleeping habits with the older ladies. 

For all intents and purposes, she came across as an intensely proud mother. One who thought her child was the most precious babe in the world.

Though Ned did not like it that she was putting herself out there for public disapprobation, he had to admit that it reinforced their agreed upon story. The more she held and played with Jon in public, the more she spent in serious conversation with other ladies about what she could expect going forward, the more it cemented in the world’s mind that Jon was hers. No one would subject themselves to such scorn if it wasn’t true.

It made Ned ill just thinking about it. That she would voluntarily dishonor herself to protect his nephew shamed him.

The next couple of days passed in an alcohol induced blur. Fortunately, he’d prepared in advance for Robert’s last effort to drink him insensate. Howland Reed had been instructed to carry him onto the Manderly ship before the morning tide, whether he could walk or talk or not. 

But before he found himself aboard the ship, he’d been shocked to discover the staggering amount of gold that had been allocated towards Oldstones’ construction. He could have built glass gardens for every keep in the North with that amount of coin.

Robert had already encumbered the treasury with the drafts he’d sent with the masons and engineers, so Ned thought that there was precious little he could do to stop it. Robert’s mind would not be changed, no matter how hard he’d tried. Ned did not envy Jon for his job as Hand.

Robert was even talking about personally supervising the construction. He hated King’s Landing every bit as much as Ned did. 

He spent much of their evening conversations coming up with ever more fanciful ways to escape the city. Supervising castle construction was sensible in comparison to some of his other ideas, which included leading an army to settle the ownership of the Disputed Lands.

Another was his professed desire to clear out the Stepstones, though to Ned that sounded more sensible than invading the Disputed Lands on Essos. Pirates were bad for trade, bad for tax collection, and harmed innocents. They needed to be dealt with, Ned thought.

The problem was that there was no Royal Fleet. What had once been the fleet was still in Targaryen hands and guarded the approach to Dragonstone. 

Despite that, the king’s brother, Stannis, was mid-construction of a replacement fleet. Which was another substantial drain on the treasury, though one that served a public purpose, not their children’s private interests. The treasury was not as overflowing with gold as Robert had claimed, he thought sadly.

When completed, that new fleet would be used to root out the last surviving Targaryens. Once they were dealt with, Robert seemed intent on clearing out the Stepstones. Ned wondered if Robert even remembered telling him he hated sea travel as an excuse to not settle Jon and Mya in the North.

To Ned’s further shame, Robert had also pressed the patents to the New Gift into his hands on his second full day in the capital. He’d not even bothered discussing the issue with the Night’s Watch before blithely stripping them of half their lands. 

Part of Ned, the small, petty, drunk part, enjoyed that slight. King Jaeherys had not consulted the North before stripping the New Gift from the Lords of Winterfell, so it seemed to be fair play. 

Ned knew, however, that he’d have to visit the Night’s Watch and discuss how to make amends. The Watch had a duty toward the North to protect it from wildlings, and the North had a duty to the Watch. He shouldn’t act high handed toward men who were only doing their duty.

But he also knew that any dispassionate observer would think he’d taken advantage of his friendship with Robert. His bastard had been legitimized and betrothed to a royal bastard. A castle was granted and construction was financed at Crown expense. The New Gift awarded to him without even discussion. 

For all the world it looked as if Eddard Stark had looted the public treasury. He wondered if Jon Arryn would ever forgive him.

Tywin Lannister had sought to intervene. He’d attempted to meet with the king on multiple occasions, only to find his way barred. 

Ned suspected he wanted to protest Mya’s legitimization, more than the looting of the treasury. Lord Lannister had a well known desire to make his daughter, Cersei, the queen. Ned agreed that the marriage would reduce the chance of further conflict, and help heal the kingdom. 

Still, it smacked of rewarding murder. A small part of Ned enjoyed seeing Lord Lannister slighted, though he knew the man could well be a danger in the future because of those slights.

Though he had to admit that Lannister was a danger even before Robert insulted him by closing the door on his face. Legitimizing Mya might cloud any succession, no matter what the decree said about her standing in the line of succession. The Blackfyre Rebellions were a well known example of the problems Robert’s impulsive actions may have caused.

He had advised Robert of that danger his last evening. “You might have to marry Cersei,” he reluctantly admitted. “But you’ll want to ensure that Ser Barristan selects the remainder of the Kingsguard.” Seeing Robert’s look of confusion, he continued, “he’s proven he’ll slam a door in Tywin Lannister’s face. You’ll want other men who’ll do the same.”

Robert had laughed uproariously at that, even as he agreed with Ned, slapping his knee. He hoped his friend listened to him. He needed to be surrounded by trusted men, not traitors. 

Traitors like himself, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He shook his head violently in an effort to deny it. He felt sick to his stomach again. 

Somehow, he’d found himself on the Manderly ship, though the details of how that came to be were less than clear. Once he’d sobered up, he found himself standing next to Ashara at the prow of the ship. 

It was their second day out of King’s Landing. The captain thought the weather would hold and they’d see White Harbor in another four days, five at the most.

“You seem better,” she said to him neutrally. Jon, as usual, was asleep in her arms. The boy was well bundled against the cold sea wind.

“Yes,” he replied, uncertain of what he should say. She’d been standoffish with him in the weeks since Starfall. He did not know what to make of this approach.

She used a corner of blanket to wipe drool from the infant’s mouth. “We need to discuss what comes next.” Her voice was dispassionate and she did not look at him, instead focusing on the babe.

He breathed deeply in an attempt to gather his courage. He knew he still loved her. The lie they agreed on would only take whatever remnants of a future she might have way from her. He hated himself for agreeing to it, but it was necessary to protect Jon.

“We follow the plan. I’ll provide you a comfortable hall a short distance from Winterfell. Jon will stay with you. Mya will join you whenever Robert makes arrangements.” He faltered. “We treat Jon as our child.” 

She nodded, her purple eyes hooded. The boy fussed and she pulled him closer to her breast until he settled down.

“You need not be concerned,” she stated matter of factly. “I want this. You owe me this,” she said, gently kissing Jon’s brow, finally betraying some emotion. “Jon is our child. I am your paramour. The world will believe it if they see it.”

He swallowed heavily. He grasped the ship’s rail before him, his hands turning white with the pressure he brought to bear. “I regret the shame I’ve brought you, Lady Ashara,” he said, his voice thick with regret.

“You did what was necessary to win the war.” Her voice was still devoid of emotion. “We will both do what is necessary to save the boy.” She smiled tenderly at the child. 

Ned found it disconcerting. One moment she was speaking to him without inflection, the next she was showering love on the child. He did not see how she could be so changeable.

“We will,” he agreed heavily. 

“Good. He will sleep a while yet and Wylla can care for him.” Her purple eyes looked at him without real warmth. “You will visit me in my cabin, as you will visit me in the hall you will provide.”

Ned felt his heart freeze. “Lady Ashara, what do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

She continued on, no change to her tone. “You will call me Ashara. I will call you Ned. You will visit me.” She cradled the boy in one arm, placing her free hand atop his hands. Her hand was cold. “If you want people to believe something, Ned, you must show them what you want them to believe.”

She stepped away from the ship’s railing, turning to her cabin. “If you want them to believe I’m yours and Jon’s ours, you have to show them. Meet me in my cabin.”

He dropped his head as he looked away, shame, guilt and desire all warring inside him. “I’d only shame you further. I’d shame my wife further. Just being here is enough to support the tale.”

She smiled, a small fragile thing. “You’ve already shamed us both. There is no way to undo that, no way to collect the spilt milk back into the bucket. Now all we can do is protect the boy.” She flicked off some dried drool from the neck of her gown. “You are young and strong. I’m still beautiful, despite everything. Anything but you truly making me yours will be suspect.”

She didn’t say anything further as she walked away and vanished below decks, handing the boy to Wylla as she passed. She did not look back.

Ned stood there a long while, his heart in his throat, deciding what he should do. Despite the cool breeze, sweat soaked his body and he had trouble breathing. Finally, desire and duty won over honor and he followed behind Ashara.

He rarely left her cabin over the several days it took for them to reach White Harbor. When they arrived at the port, he knew it was only a matter of time before the story of what he and Ashara had been doing would be spread far and wide. 

He hated himself for it. He knew he lied when he tried to convince himself he was with her out of a sense of duty, out of a need to protect the boy. He knew he was with her because he wanted to be, because he still desired her and still loved her. 

He hated himself even more when he realized he wouldn’t stop when he arrived at Winterfell.

TSINTS TSINTS TSINTS

AN: When Aegon IV legitimized all his natural children, it appears they kept their bastard surnames. So I’m assuming the king doesn’t have to give them the family name when legitimizing them. Jon remains a Snow and Mya remains Stone.

AN: I debated Ned rekindling his relationship with Ashara. It seems contrary to his public reputation. But then I thought of his lies, even his willingness to marry another, after sleeping with Ashara, if duty demanded it, his willingness to remain silent even if it hurt Catelyn, and came to the conclusion that maybe he’d cave to his personal desires if he could cloak it as protecting Jon.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter occurs about eight years after chapters one and two. It’s in Ashara’s POV.

AN: It was noamg that clued me into that Rhaegar, and subsequently, Jon, has Dayne blood through Lady Dyanna Dayne. She never became queen but her husband did become king. She is an ancestress to Rhaegar, through her son Aegon V (Egg from the Dunk and Egg stories).

TSINTS TSINTS TSINTS

Ashara Dayne nursed her youngest son from her solar window. Arthur was a blessing, she thought, looking down at the babe. 

None of her pregnancies had been easy. She’d had two miscarriages before Arya entered the world. Arthur would be her last child, according to the maester. Another would likely kill her.

She stroked the months old infant’s cheek. He smiled contentedly without stopping his feeding.

It was enough. Everything that she should have had and which Ned’s precious duty had stolen from her, she’d almost entirely reclaimed. This little one completed her family.

Like her infant son, she was finally content. She had three children, two sons and a daughter. Two daughters, if she counted Mya, and she did. Even if one of her sons still bore a bastard’s name, she thought, scowling, as she unknowingly tightened her grip on Arthur. 

The babe picked up on her sudden change of mood and whimpered. She smoothed her face and smiled at her youngest child. She sang a nonsensical song, low and soft, to ease his troubled brow. Within moments the child was relaxed in her arms. She kissed the top of his head, gently, as he dozed into sleep.

Her singing attracted her second child, Arya. She stormed over, a whirlwind trapped in a child’s body. She was kicking furiously at a leather ball stuffed with feathers. It was Arya’s favorite toy and preferred weapon. Her daughter, who’d just seen her fourth name day, was fond of throwing it at whomever attracted her displeasure. It was a common event. 

“It’s not fair, mama,” Arya whined for the hundredth time. “It’s not fair that Jon and Mya get to practice with swords and I don’t.” 

To reinforce her argument, Arya laid her head on Ashara’s thigh, clutching at her waist with her small hands, as she looked up at her with pleading eyes. It was her usual tactic, one that was often successful when it came to sweets so she had not yet abandoned it.

Arya’s features were very much like her father and older brother’s. Dark, long, curly hair and slate grey eyes. Slender but tall for her age, with a pale complexion. While Arthur was the only child to inherit her violet eyes, he gave every indication of otherwise sharing his siblings’ features.

It gave her intense satisfaction that all three of her children had the Stark look. Lady Catelyn’s three were entirely Tully in appearance. Tall, auburn haired and blue eyed. She knew it drove Catelyn to distraction to know that her husband's bastards looked more Stark than her own trueborn children. She counted it a small victory, one of many she’d won.

She didn’t hate Catelyn. She knew what it was to be a scorned woman and so did not envy her. But she was also aware of her pathetic efforts to see Ashara and her children removed from the North, separating them from Ned. 

Her most recent line of attack was that they should return to Starfall since two of her children now bore the Dayne name. They needed to learn of their Dayne roots was Lady Catelyn’s reasoning. She’d never given up her efforts to convince Ned that Jon should take the Dayne name, like his two youngest siblings.

Ashara wondered how Lady Catelyn would react if she knew that she agreed with her. Jon did need a name, whether that name was Stark or Dayne. Jon, Arya and Arthur did need to spend time in Starfall and be immersed in their Dayne heritage before Jon and Mya took Oldstones.

The trick was to convince Ned. Lady Catelyn’s preferred tactic was to poke, prod and demand. It never seemed to occur to the Tully woman that all she’d ever accomplished was to dig in her husband’s heels. 

Not Ashara. She knew that Ned needed to be convinced that his duty required him to take action. He wouldn’t bend for love. He wouldn’t bend for gain. He wouldn’t even bend for the honor that men often bloviated about but so rarely had. He would only bend for duty. Much like her brother.

Once he was convinced that duty required it, then he would allow her and her family to return home. She would gladly return to the warmth of Dorne, now that her family was complete. She kissed little Arthur’s brow as she thought of how to guide Ned on the path she needed him to follow.

Not too soon, she reasoned. Arthur was still far too young to safely travel. And all of her children needed to have some memory of their siblings before she took them away.

Even their Tully siblings. Ashara loved Robb, Sansa and Bran almost as much as she loved her own. She respected Ned for insisting that his trueborn children accompany him on his regular visits. It went a long way towards ensuring that all of his children grew to know one another.

However, she despised Ned’s weakness in refusing to allow Jon to take the Stark name, a consequence of Catelyn Tully’s interference. She thought him a hypocrite for refusing to let him take the Dayne name, even though both she and Alaric both supported it. He blathered on about how it would be improper as Jon lacked Dayne blood. 

She’d been too shocked to respond properly. Of course Jon possessed Dayne blood. He was her son after all. And even if Ned had forgotten that, he should remember that Jon was the great great grandson of Dyanna Dayne. 

In her anger, she’d made a mistake. She challenged him to make him a Stark, instead of reminding him of Jon’s twice over Dayne connection. In response, he’d just looked away in shame as he walked away.

It was not one of her finer moments, she knew. She acted more like a Tully than a Dayne in that quarrel.

Still, she held considerable contempt for Eddard Stark, which she kept carefully concealed. He was a man of half measures. If it weren’t for her need to protect her eldest and reclaim all of what was hers, the children and life she should have had, she’d have left him long ago.

Remaining in the North also ensured that all six of his children were as well bonded as could be, considering the circumstances. She just wished that Catelyn Tully would allow her children to visit Winterfell. She wouldn’t even be opposed to Jon, Mya and Arya regularly spending a few days, even a few weeks, at their ancestral home. But Lady Catelyn was adamant that her husband’s bastards would never darken her door.

Poor Catelyn viewed her as a rival for her husband’s affections. Perhaps she was, in a way, if one counted bodies coming together. But if the woman would just speak to her civilly for a few minutes, she might discover they had many common interests.

“Please, mama,” Arya whined again, still looking up at her and shaking Ashara free of her momentary reminiscing. 

She bent over and kissed the top of Arya’s head. The sleeping infant wrinkled his nose as her sister’s curls brushed his face. Arya, as usual, was studious in ignoring her youngest brother. While she adored Jon and Mya, she often pretended Arthur didn’t exist, calling him boring. 

Ashara thought jealousy might also be playing a small part in her little girl’s reasoning.

“You can have a sword,” she said, taking pleasure in her daughter’s eyes lighting up. She looked forward to the day her brother gifted her daughter her first wooden sword. “But only when Uncle Artos tells me you are ready.” 

Arya’s face collapsed at this. She seemed torn between raging and crying. As usual, she did both. Her face and eyes scrunched up as if resisting tears, while she clenched her fists and her ears turned red. Ashara thought it adorable, even as her heart wrenched, just a bit, to see it.

“He’ll never say I’m ready!” she protested hotly, stamping her foot.

Ashara looked down with concern. Fortunately, Arthur seemed oblivious to his sister’s most recent temper tantrum, and dreamed on.

“He’ll say yes the moment he believes that you won’t run about the hall, striking the servants and other children with your sword,” Ashara said softly as she pulled Arya toward her, looking significantly toward her leather ball.

To her credit, Arya’s head dropped, her lip trembling. “Jori deserved it,” she whispered weakly on the verge of tears. ‘He called me names.”

“I have no doubt he deserved it, Arya,” she lied as she gathered her in to comfort her. Arya snuggled into her side, for once not minding sharing her attention with Arthur. “But that doesn’t excuse you throwing things at him. It worries your uncle that you might hit people with a sword, if you can’t control your temper.”

Ashara doubted that Jori had given any real offense. At only eleven, Jori was amongst the most mild mannered of the mountain clan boys Ned had sent to her brother to train as knights. 

The first dozen had already completed their training and been sent to garrison Oldstones, which Robert had completed at great expense in record time. Jori was part of the second dozen, who had only started their training a year earlier. 

Ned was determined to populate Oldstones with the families of second and third sons drawn from the mountain clans. They were loyal and considered the Starks’ kin. Each clan also provided a boy for Ser Artos to train. If they met her brother’s demanding standards, and the entire first dozen had, they’d be raised to knighthood and their clan granted a hall in Jon’s demesne. 

As an added incentive, at Ashara’s suggestion, he granted a portion of the lands in the New Gift to each clan who sent families to Oldstones. It was far too valuable to be left vacant, Ashara had reasoned. And if Ned was stronger, Jon was stronger.

Jon’s people would be strong and proud, if Ned Stark had anything to do with it. A sop to his pride, Ashara suspected, considering that Robert had handled everything with little input or support from Ned. 

No matter how strong or proud, Jori Flint was a sweet boy. Ashara thought Jori’s most likely crime was to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when her daughter became angry, which was a common occurrence. 

Wolf’s blood, Ned had called it. His brother Brandon had it, as did his sister, Lyanna. All of her children had it, which was another difference between the Tully Starks and Dayne Starks. Ashara smiled at the thought.

Arya’s eyes were still downcast, so Ashara took the opportunity to kiss the top of her head one more time, breathing in the scent of her daughter’s curls. She wondered if her first child would have been so fierce or beautiful, only to push the thought aside before she cried. Some things should not be thought of, she reminded herself sternly.

She decided that her darling girl needed some hope. “If you don’t hit, kick or throw anything at anyone for three days in a row,” she said, naming her most common offenses, once they’d cured her of her habit of biting those who aroused her ire, “I’ll speak to your uncle.”

Arya looked distressed. “Three days is forever,” she complained forlornly. 

“Three days is a blink of an eye, if you manage it properly,” Ashara rebuked her softly. “Ride your pony. Kick your ball. Climb trees. Swim in the pond. Play with the dogs. Make Jon tell you stories. Practice braiding Mya’s hair,” she suggested, naming some of the things Arya enjoyed, though Mya suffered Arya’s efforts with good humor. “Keep yourself busy and away from anyone who might aggravate you, including Jori. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Arya looked doubtful. “Why can’t I have a sword now?” she pleaded. “I can promise to be good for three days.”

Ashara finally frowned at Arya. “Don’t make promises you can’t or won’t keep, sweetling. You’d shame your blood.”

Don’t be like your father, she mentally added. Ned had made her promises. He’d promised he loved her, that he’d marry her, that they’d have children, and he’d find them a place, lands of their own. He hadn’t been the heir when he said those things. She hadn’t expected a great lord’s estate. But she had expected him to honor his word, to follow his heart as she had followed hers. 

Instead, he’d betrayed her, dishonored her, in the name of duty. She almost snarled, but didn’t. Her children needed her love, not her anger. She would obtain satisfaction without hurting her loves.

Arya must have sensed that she wouldn’t bend on this, as she lifted her head and tried, but failed, to conceal her trembling lip. Instead, she nodded before flouncing off in the direction of the kennels, wiping a tear away with her sleeve. Ashara did not call her back. Instead, she hoped she’d listened to her and tried to follow her advice. She’d get her sword sooner that way.

She loved her precious girl, loved her fierceness and independence, but she needed to learn to direct her ire to those who’d earned it, not indiscriminately inflict it on those who happened to be near. Otherwise, she’d grow to become a lonely, bitter and angry woman. 

Her daughter deserved better. She deserved better than what her mother had become. She would do anything to see her happy. Even impose boundaries, though it broke her heart to limit her.

Personally, she thought that being worked to exhaustion on the practice field would help her girl learn to control her temper. It had certainly helped with Jon and Mya’s. 

Arthur—no, Artos, she reminded herself—was a harsh taskmaster. He expected that his trainees would leave every ounce of energy they had on the training field. If they didn’t, he had ways of making sure they regretted it. They had little left over for fits of anger.

She looked out of the solar into the training yard. It was her preferred perch on the second floor overlooking the yard. The yard was always a hive of activity from dawn to dusk. 

She never grew tired of the activity. Even when she was pregnant and ordered to rest, she did so from this window.

Her brother, Ser Artos Sand, she reminded herself, a bastard of House Dayne, served both as her castellan and master of arms. He maintained a continual presence in the yard. In the morning, he trained the dozen mountain boys Ned had sent them. When the sun was high in the sky, he trained Mya and Jon. 

In the afternoon, before the sun fell, he trained the score of clansmen that Ned sent to them. She knew he was impressed with their courage and hardiness. He’d spend months hammering discipline into that courage, ensuring that each would hold their position in a shield wall. He demanded that they were all at least familiar with the fundamentals of sword, axe and spear. When they met with his satisfaction, he sent them and their families south and waited for the next group to arrive.

All in all, the woodland hall that Ned had granted to her and their children was always busy. Ashara quite liked the bustle and the ever present smell of water, pine and smoke. She knew she’d miss it when she returned to Dorne. She wondered if she’d be able to live like this again at Oldstones.

Her brother was easy to spot. He kept his head shaved bald and wore a heavy beard to cover his face. That and his imposing size ensured that he stood out in a crowd. She almost wept, as she always did, when she saw the cruel scar that wrapped its way around his neck upwards towards his mouth, and the missing half of his right hand. 

All he had left on that hand was his thumb and first finger. It was no longer strong enough to hold a sword or shield. While her brother didn’t need his right hand, as he was equally skilled with his left, she still mourned his mutilation and his lost beauty.

He, of course, paid it no mind. Blood, scars and missing limbs were the price one paid for knighthood, he claimed. He’d crafted a thick steel disc that was forged onto his heavier than normal right gauntlet which he used in lieu of a shield and went about his business as if he had no care in the world.

His tanned head was facing Jon and Mya, concealing his lilac eyes. Fortunately, there were enough Sands of Dayne blood among Starfall’s men at arms that no one questioned it when Alaric sent one of his bastard brothers to safeguard his sister in the frozen North.

She smiled looking down at her two children. Jon, her son, was always so serious and somber. He hung onto every word his uncle spoke as if it were wisdom from the gods. When Artos demonstrated a sword movement, Jon’s eyes tracked it as his slender frame mirrored her brother’s movements. 

Artos very rarely praised a pupil. He was one of those infuriating men who thought that words were wind and the boy’s increasing skill was proof enough of his achievements. But privately, outside of earshot, he had confessed to her that Jon had the talent and drive to one day surpass Prince Rhaegar’s skill at arms.

She, of course, knew her children’s hearts better than their uncle. Children craved attention and praise in equal measure. While her brother paid them plenty of attention, she made sure to heap enough praise on them to make up for the shortfall coming from him. 

She thought the results spoke for themselves, when Jon saw her smiling at him and he flashed a smile back at her. His smiles were rare things. She cherished each as the most precious of jewels.

She thought he might smile more if he wasn’t singled out from his siblings with his bastard’s name. She knew he was a clever boy who spent too much time alone with his thoughts. She decided she’d have to press the issue with Ned. She might even have to enlist Artos’ aid. She might even have to write Lady Catelyn, if Ned continued to be stubborn.

Her good-daughter, Mya, on the other hand, had none of Jon’s somber demeanor. Her laughing blue eyes rarely took anything seriously. She paid just enough attention to learn, but not enough for true mastery, Artos complained. Even now, Mya’s eyes were tracking a flock of geese that flew overhead, her attention only half on her brother.

Despite her difficulties focusing, she never missed a day in the yard. She had inherited much of her father’s strength, speed and aggression. At eleven, she was already matching those squires of a similar age. 

She dressed as a boy. She rode like a boy. And she fought like a boy, to Ashara’s great pride. Despite that, she’d be a beauty some day, Ashara thought fondly, if she ever chose to give up her leathers and sword for a lady’s gown.

And that, she knew, would grow to be a problem. Jon was three years her junior. Despite Jon’s laborious mastery of the more technical aspects of arms, Mya regularly beat him on the practice field. Jon was years away from reaching his full growth, while Mya was well ahead of him. 

There was a real danger that if this was allowed to continue for too long, the familiarity that she had hoped to foster between the two might turn to contempt. No woman, especially the type of woman that Mya had every appearance of growing into, would want a husband weaker than her. 

She worried that by the time that their roles were reversed, and Jon could match or even exceed her power and speed, it might be too late. Perhaps her scorn would become too deeply ingrained or her affections might be shown to another. Either way, it would wreck any chance of a happy marriage. The thought broke her heart.

She gnawed her lower lip as she considered the problem for multiple angles. Her father had long ago taught her the folly of impulsive decision making. Bitter experience had proven her father wise. So she tried to consider the problem from the perspective of everyone involved. 

She didn’t like the answer. She barely acknowledged the servant that brought in a tray of meats, cheese and weak beer, placing it before her.

As usual, when her brother finally allowed them to spar, Jon was placed immediately on the defensive. He gave ground steadily, always keeping proper distance, his footwork well advanced for his age. His betrothed sent a continuous flurry of blows his way. Her energy was boundless and she gave no sign of tiring. Some of her strikes he evaded, keeping his movements small and tight, others he deflected, his sword also blur, but she was still too fast for him. 

Like her brother, he primarily used his wrist to manipulate his blade. It made his blade faster than otherwise, but she still had the size and muscle advantage. Even as a child he did not use his entire arm, as did so many so-called trained knights. She felt a growing pride in his performance and begrudged the significant difference in size that currently existed between her son and good-daughter.

Mya, on the other hand, pressed constantly. She tried to crowd Jon, hammering at him repeatedly, never giving him a chance to counter-attack. Her movements were not entirely controlled. Though far from unskilled, there was more than a bit of wildness to her strikes.

Starfall’s master of arms would not have tolerated it, and neither did Artos. “Stop!” he called out. Locking his eyes on Mya, he growled out, “what is this?” as he lifted his entire arm up and down, mimicking a smith’s hammer. He then grabbed her sword arm and lifted it up, and smacked the exposed skin with the flat of his blade. “A stronger warrior, a faster warrior, would take your arm off if you had played such games with him,” he said disapprovingly. 

She stared back defiantly. “It’s only Jon,” she declared. “It worked on him and it’d work on anyone smaller and weaker than me.”

Neither her brother nor good-daughter noticed how Jon’s head dropped during their exchange. Ashara pursed her lips as she considered her son. She’d have to act sooner than she intended. A part of her mourned.

Artos’ brow grew thunderous. “You must train like you’ll fight, Mya. Playing games, growing distracted, becoming contemptuous of weaker opponents will only get you killed.” 

He stepped back and visibly calmed himself. Mya took on a mulish demeanor, looking everywhere but at Artos, while Jon lifted his head and looked directly at his uncle, his face impassive. 

“Head to the pells, both of you. I want a hundred strokes with both the left and right hand. Then you’re released for the day.” With that he turned, and walked away, obviously dismissing both of the children.

When he entered her solar for their customary mid-day meal, she offered him a cup of weak beer. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, keeping her voice light and sweet.

Her brother flinched. She had trained him well. He was well aware that she was her most vindictive the sweeter she appeared. 

“She needs to learn . . .” he began.

Her raised hand cut him off. “Yes, she does,” she replied, a hint of venom in her tone. “Was it necessary to describe my son as slow and weak? In front of his betrothed, no less?”

He looked confused, placing his tin cup down. “I did no such thing,” he protested.

She gave him a scornful smile. “No, dear brother. I assure you that’s exactly what they both heard, no matter your intentions.”

He frowned, and she saw he was thinking back to his interactions with the children. A dawning realization came across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, straightening his back and for all the world looking as if he were a soldier willing to accept punishment. “I’ll apologize to Jon.”

She glared at him. “You’ll do no such thing. You are more a father to him than Eddard Stark. He’s still young enough that he’ll think it’s his fault that you’re apologizing. Instead, you’ll open that closed mouth of yours and praise him for the next several practices.” She leaned back, keeping a hard stare on the former Sword of the Morning. “Hopefully, it will become a habit. Your words have torn him down. Now use them to build him up.”

He nodded jerkily, obviously still distraught now that he’d considered his ill chosen words. “I’m still not used to training children so young,” he admitted.

She mentally sighed. It was not only children that needed praise. She patted his leg affectionately. “You are doing a wonderful job, brother. Both Jon and Mya are well advanced for their age. All you need do is think twice before you speak.”

“It won’t happen again,” he promised.

“It won’t,” she agreed. “I’ve decided we need to foster out both Jon and Mya.”

He sat upright at that. “I won’t abandon my king!” he growled, his eyes flashing.

She slapped him with her free hand. And then slapped him again as he sat there shocked. “Remember yourself!” she spat. “You are a bastard knight in the service of your disgraced sister. You train your bastard nephew. You are not a Kingsguard!” She looked down, concerned, but little Arthur was apparently to sleep through a storm, so long as he was held comfortably.

For a moment it looked as if he was going to argue, then he slumped down into his chair. “You are right, sister. I have forgotten myself.” There was a defeated air about him.

She smiled in satisfaction. Ned and Arthur had many similarities, she’d observed. Both expected the world to bend to them and both sometimes needed to be reminded of reality.

“Don’t worry, Artos,” she said, stressing his new name. “I’m not proposing that we separate you and Jon. Where he goes, you go.”

Her brother looked relieved as she spoke. “What do you propose then?”

“It’s only a matter of time before Robert remembers his daughter and good-son. If we don’t act first, he will. We need to preempt him, before he fosters them out himself, probably in the south. Frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

“We need to convince Ned to send Mya to Bear Island. Robert will be tickled,” she said her voice thick with scorn, “that his little girl is being mentored by the Mormont women.” She looked at her brother contemplatively. 

“And Jon?”

She could tell he was hesitant. The Sword of the Morning brought low by his wisp of a little sister, she thought with amusement.

“He stays close, in the North, safe from the eyes of the south. I think Lady Dustin would be glad to foster him.” She watched her brother like a hawk would watch a mouse.

“Why her?” he asked, confusion evident on his face. Her brother was very thick sometimes, she couldn’t help but think. 

Barbrey Dustin had become her fast friend in the years she’d spent in the North. At first, she was merely snooping, Ashara knew, looking for evidence that Jon was truly Brandon’s. The woman was half mad with grief, having lost both her lover and her husband in the war. She’d been looking to cause trouble.

Ashara had grown to think of her as a kindred spirit, despite the false front. Her overtures had been transparent, her schemes obvious, as the poor woman had not the advantages of growing up in Dorne and then the Mad King’s Court. But over time, she’d managed to turn Barbrey from a woman looking to manipulate circumstances for her own benefit, namely revenge, to something approaching a true friend.

Her brother had unknowingly played a large role in that transition. Despite his ruined face and maimed hand, he looked every bit a warrior. His dominating performance against warriors and knights, both noble born and common, had established his reputation as a dangerous man. Barbrey Dustin had been making doe eyes at her brother for years and he still remained oblivious.

“Because she cares for Jon,” she said half truthfully. Lady Dustin had indeed developed a bit of fondness for her moody son, claiming that it reminded her Brandon. Jon’s uncle had apparently been a man of grand passions and dark moods. “And,” she added delicately, “she’s taken a liking to my bastard brother.”

She saw realization dawn on his face. “I’m afraid, dear sister, that I cannot reciprocate her ‘liking’. I’ve taken an oath,” he said stiffly.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “What oath is that, dear brother of mine? Your knight’s oath does not require celibacy. You are no Kingsguard,” she stressed again. “You are Ser Artos Sand. A bastard knight of Dorne.”

There was a flame in his eye. “I only play at this charade to protect Jon. I will not be forsworn!”

She matched her glare. “To protect Jon you need to stop acting like a Kingsguard! It attracts attention. You betray him when you forget your role. Already the serving girls gossip as to why you reject their advances! A bastard knight would not be a celibate.”

He did not back down. “So you would have me be an oathbreaker?” There was heat in his voice. 

She’d had enough. “You are already an oathbreaker, Ser,” she said contemptuously, as he sat there, stunned. “You betrayed your knightly vows every time you let Aerys rape Rhaella and you did nothing. Every time he burned an innocent and you did nothing. You betrayed your Kingsguard vows when you obeyed Rhaegar and not Aerys.”

She leaned over, her face nearly touching her hulking brother as she glared into his eyes. “The only oath that matters is protecting Jon,” she hissed. She leaned back and collected herself before sneering again. “You’ll bed Barbrey Dustin, as any knight without lands hoping for advancement would do. You won’t betray my son by forgetting what you are, my bastard brother.”

He stared at her for long moments, before swallowing heavily. “And you? The mountain clansmen?”

She smiled sweetly. “I stay here, waiting with baited breath for my beloved to visit.” Her lips twisted. “Eventually, I’ll convince him that Jon needs our name, or at least Stark, and we can end this farce. I have everything I want from him other than that.” She breathed deeply, collecting herself as the babe shifted and gurgled in his sleep at her breast. “As to the mountain clans, you’ll continue as you have been, but at Barrowton, not here.”

He appeared lost, so she cupped his cheek in her free hand. “All that you do, you do for Baelor,” she whispered, staring deeply into his beautiful eyes. “Do your duty. Protect your king. To do that you need to stay close but play your role. I’ll convince Ned.”

He sighed, defeated. “Aye, sister. I will.” He stared at her, searching her face. “Did I ever know you?”

She leaned into him. After a moment he put his arm around her. “You’ve always known me, Arthur. I just haven’t let you see everything. I’m a Dornish woman scorned.” Little Arthur stirred, finally waking from his nap and began rooting for her nipple. She gave it to him absently. “Ned Stark took something from me. He took my chance for a family. I took it back, that’s all.” She looked up at him, her head not quite reaching his shoulder. “Soon Jon will be a man grown and a lord. Then I’ll take another small part of what should have been my future back.” She settled back into her brother’s arms just as little Arthur settled into hers. “Then we can start thinking about dealing with that other thief of innocent futures, Robert Baratheon.”

She smiled when she felt her brother tighten his arms around her in approval. When he kissed her hair, she felt like a little girl again, before all the troubles. She would have everything Ned promised her. It was only a matter of time.

TSINTS TSINTS TSINTS

AN: I think the next chapter is Catelyn’s POV.

AN: For those who question how Oldstones could be built so quickly, the new Oldstones castle is loosely based on the historic Château Gaillard (i.e., the cocky or saucy castle). Unlike the historic fortress, there is a well in the inner keep (the omission of which is of disputed accuracy anyway) and it’s not built on a chalk bluff. Despite being a monstrous fortress, Richard I, called the Lionheart, completed it in only two years at great expense (12,000 pounds, which is a massive fortune in today’s money). The miraculously quick construction was a testament to Richard’s ability to get things done when he paid attention and threw money at a problem (much like Robert in this AU). It was not impregnable, but was very strong. It fell to sieges several times, though never when properly garrisoned. The first siege ended only after eight months (which is an indication of the castle’s strength) when French knights gained entry by climbing up the latrine shafts (per legend) or through an unwatched window in the chapel (more likely, per some historians).


End file.
